The world narrows to a violent, rhythmic lurch. The only sounds are the frantic drumbeat of the horse's hooves against the forest floor and the relentless, grating chime of Diluc's armour—a cruel metronome counting down the seconds you have left with him. The wind whips at your face, but you feel nothing, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, your cheek pressed against the cold, unyielding metal of his backplate, as if you could imprint yourself there forever.

He doesn't take you home. Home is a memory, a smouldering ruin on the horizon. Instead, he brings you to the nearest allied kingdom, a place of unfamiliar stone and strangers' faces. The room he leads you to is safe and sterile and feels more like a gilded cage. A fire crackles in the hearth, but it does nothing to chase the ice from your veins.

He kneels before you, his greatsword discarded by the door, and his gauntleted hands—hands that can wield such destruction—come up to frame your face. The cold metal is a shock against your skin. His thumbs, surprisingly gentle, brush away the tears you didn't realise were falling. His eyes, usually burning with a fierce, determined fire, are now soft, filled with a love so profound it feels like a fresh wound.

"You will stay here," he murmurs, his voice low and rough with emotion. "You will stay here until our baby is born. Do you understand?"

The command is uttered with a tenderness that shatters you. It's the "understand" that breaks the dam. It’s not a question; it's a plea from a man who is already gone.

"No," you choke out, your voice a broken whisper. Your hands fly up, clutching his wrists, holding on as if the very tide of fate were trying to pull him away. "No, I beg you! Don't go. Please, don't go when I am about to give birth to your child. I cannot do this alone."

Your vision blurs, the noble, worried lines of his face swimming before you. You feel the frantic kick of your baby, a painful echo of your own panic. This should be a time of quiet anticipation, of shared hope. Not this. Not a goodbye.

He leans forward, his forehead resting against yours, a single, shuddering breath passing his lips. "I am sorry, my wife," he whispers, the words a ghost in the space between you. "My heart, my very soul, screams to stay. But our kingdom needs me. Our people need their leader. I have to save our home… that is my promise. My first, and my most terrible, duty."

He pulls back just enough to press his lips to your forehead—a seal, a blessing, a brand. Then he lowers himself further, his form so incongruously humble, and presses a lingering, reverent kiss to the swell of your stomach, to the child who will know him only as a legend.

"I will come back to you," he vows, the words a low ember of a promise. "To both of you."